


Home (Again)

by Zedrobber



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Athos being useless, F/M, Milady being bitter, seriously guys it's been ten years wtf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: Birthday fic for Charis! [Prompt was: It's been 10 years since they last met and now they meet unexpectedly]Broke with series canon at the end of series 2, because who needs series 3?Happy birthday lovely <3





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Charis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charis/gifts).



He’s getting old. He can barely tell, superficially; perhaps a streak of grey at his temples, but otherwise, he has barely changed physically in the ten years that stretch behind him like a yawning chasm of agony. It is before his time, surely- he’s hardly  _ old _ by any stretch of his imagination, still young enough to fight and hold his own against the best – but the ache of his back, the groan of his muscles, and the sheer weight of exhaustion that slumps across his shoulders is dragging him down into the despair of a future he knows is coming, long and alone and cold.

The truth is, he should never have been made Captain. He was barely fit to lead men then, and he isn’t fit to do so now. The weight of responsibility has killed any love he had for the idea and has driven him into the ground along with it. And he has never quite shaken off the anger and the resentment, the useless  _ what if I had been earlier _ of that decision to choose duty over – well, over  _ everything _ , he supposes. An hour, ten minutes, two minutes- would that have been enough to change it all? Would those precious extra seconds have made all the difference? The agony lies in never knowing. For all he knows, she may be dead, tossed overboard at sea. It might be better if she is.

_ She isn’t _ , his mind whispers.  _ You’d know. _ His bones would sing with the misery of it, his heart would surely stall in its incessant beating, even if only for a moment, if she were truly gone. And yet here he stands, and here he fights, and the relentless, unchanging routine of it is killing him faster than the wine.

His hands shake sometimes now- he supposes it’s the drink, supposes he should stop before it’s too late, but then again what’s the use? Everything he does is too late. He has always been one step behind the  _ right _ decision, blundering blindly into the one that seems best.

At least he’s done right by d’Artagnan, finally – he is Captain now; years too late, but it still feels like the best thing Athos has done with the Captaincy. D’Artagnan is  _ good _ at leading men, and his soul is still strong and shining. Athos loves him for it, and envies him desperately.

He does his duty, and then drowns himself in wine and misery and pain and is oblivious to anything other than his own silent, bitter memories. Not even his friends can drag him out these days; he sees them hovering at the edges of his vision, concerned glances and worried conversation, but he cannot bring himself to engage like he used to- even sarcasm seems to have evaded him, these days.

_ Why didn’t you follow her? _ Aramis asked, once- years ago, now, or perhaps only yesterday- and though Athos’ response was curt and immediate-  _ she left early­-  _  it has haunted him, that tentative, coiling thought of  _ what if I did _ that he never acts on, telling himself she doesn’t want him, that he doesn’t even know where she is.

-x-

She  _ feels _ as though she is getting old; she knows, objectively, that she is still beautiful, knows that men still look twice at her when she walks past. In the past, this has pleased her, has made it easier to do her job without suspicion. Now, she finds it merely irritating, one more mask she has to wear to appear indifferent to their attentions. But her body shivers in the cold evenings and her chest is tight in winter and she feels a million aches and pains she doesn’t recall having before, and this all combines into a general feeling of  _ aging _ that makes her fretful and uncertain for her future.

The truth is, she should never have left early. The thought occurred to her on the boat, land already a mere speck behind her and the sea swelling against the vessel indifferently, and it has never left her since, tormenting her waking thoughts and haunting her dreams. But she is stubborn and she is spurned, and in her mind he did not come because he does not want her and does not miss her and her shame and humiliation at this perceived slight has fuelled the anger for these past ten years. The weight of the decision she made is heavy on her bones, presses into her, sharp and uncomfortable and constant, and the anger has made her tired, exhausted to the core until she no longer feels as though she has anger left to burn.

_ What if _ , she thinks, and she despairs at the very idea that if she had stayed an hour, ten minutes, two minutes longer even, it might have been long enough, he might have come after all.

The scared, humiliated girl inside her that day has always been the one whispering  _ what if _ , and Milady hates her, hates the broken sound of that internal child’s voice.

For all she knows, he could be married again by now- or dead, even, lost to the savagery of war in some forgotten spit of land, buried in a hole with hundreds of other faceless soldiers.

Perhaps it would be easier if he is.

_ He isn’t _ , that child insists, and she knows he cannot be- she still breathes, still feels the strength in her arms and the power in her mind, and surely she would be nothing if he were dead, surely her body would simply cease to be. And yet here she stands, and here she fights, and the relentless, unchanging futility of it is killing her faster than the marching of the years could ever manage.

She married for money in England, and killed him- she supposes it is wrong, supposes she should stop, but then again what else can she do? She has nothing but her own wits and her own strength and she must survive,  _ has _ to survive somehow. It’s what she’s always done, and she cannot- will not- give up, not even when her heart is aching for it.

She returns to Paris unwillingly, like a dog that knows it will be punished returning to its master when called. She cannot keep away, drawn to the stink and the life and to  _ him _ even though she no longer knows if he is even here. It hardly matters; she feels the ghost of him in every shadow, sees his broad shouldered, slouching figure in every crowd of people, her heart lurching briefly each time despite her assertions that she doesn’t care.

She isn’t sure what exactly she intends to do here; she cannot easily be an assassin again, not if Athos is still in Paris, but her money will run out soon enough and after that she will be at the mercy of whoever will pay her enough to live. The thought of poverty is disgusting and humiliating to her. She rents rooms in an acceptable area and spends her days roaming for a suitable opportunity and her evenings staring into the candlelight with her chest leaden and her limbs aching and cold.

_ Why didn’t you wait? _ she asked herself, more than once, and though her answer was quick, it was a lie, the biggest lie she has ever told herself.  _ I didn’t need him. _ The truth- that she was scared he would not come, that she has been scared and lost and broken for as long as she recalls- is too much for her to hear, and so she pushes it back and ignores the child screaming.

-x-

He walks through the streets with his hat low over his eyes, his shoulders hunched up in that unconscious  _ leave me alone _ gesture that he seems to have adopted successfully. The sword on his belt and the heavy tread of his boots do the rest, and he moves unmolested through the crowds that part for him nervously. The sun is unseasonably bright; the winter air is crisp and clear, his breath pluming in front of him. He sees none of this, focused on getting the job done and getting back to the silence of his rooms where his head can pound mercilessly in peace. Even the soft jingle of metal that always accompanies him is annoying today, deafening him.

_ Just get it done, _ he thinks, and it’s the only thing keeping him upright today. One more informant to threaten, and then he can slip back into misery. It’s almost comforting.

-x-

She isn’t watching where she’s going, too wrapped up in wandering thoughts of warmth and irritated musings of where exactly her next rent will be coming from. Her money is fast running out, and she only has so many jewels she can part with before it’s living on the streets again. People part around her, struck by her unconsciously intimidating, imperious expression and the haughty tilt of her chin and sure she must be some great noblewoman out on business. She moves unhampered and unmolested, seeing nothing and feeling numbed by the stress and tension of her uncertain future. She doesn’t want to go back to her old haunts; doesn’t want to lower herself into the gutter willingly again if she can help it. It took her years and tears and blood to drag herself out the first time.

_ Just one, _ she thinks, eyeing a likely target for pick-pocketing with only vague interest.  _ Just one little job, and then I can go home. _ Though home seems like a cruel joke of a word to use for the shabby little rooms she rents.

-x-

“Watch where you’re going,” the man grunts out as she shoulders into him, at the same moment that she snaps, “Out of my way.” They move aside as one, irritable and scowling, and it is only as he shifts to pull his hat back from his eyes- to better glare at the offender- that they both realise their heart just stuttered at the sound of the other’s voice.

Athos pushes his hat back with a cold, piercing slide of fear, the tremble of his fingers nothing to do with the wine for once. He cannot breathe, can do nothing but swallow thickly and drag his eyes up from his own boots, narrowing against the vivid red of her skirts, the thick folds of fabric that look so soft and inviting that he almost reaches out before he stops himself, and up further to where her hands are clutched against her chest, thin fingers wringing together. He pauses, steels himself against the lurch of disappointment, and licks his dry lips as he forces his eyes upwards once more to her face, locking his gaze with hers and feeling the slide of something that had been broken click once more into place in his chest.

She stares at him in wild-eyed terror, her chest heaving, her hands clutching each other so painfully they are almost numb. She wants to run, wants to disappear and leave this city and never look back at those damned eyes, so lost and desperate and  _ broken _ that she can barely see the Athos she remembers shining through them. Those eyes confirm the terrible truth she has been ignoring for ten years, beyond any shadow of a doubt; an hour, ten minutes, two minutes longer, and he would have been there,  _ had _ been there perhaps moments after she had lost her nerve and left. The desolation and the hurt and the anger are all etched on his face, and she only just stops herself from reaching out to touch his cheek in silent sorrow.

“You-“ he chokes out, voice hoarse and cracked like a dried-up riverbed. “You-“

He has no words for the rush of forgotten emotion surging through him, cannot explain how he is suddenly rocked to the core and unable to think beyond the chaotic swirl of simple feeling, memories dredged up like clams from the mud, exposed and vulnerable and raw, and so he just stands with his hands uselessly at his sides, clenched into fists to stop him from touching her. His ears are ringing and he wonders vaguely if he might swoon, but he holds himself up by sheer force of will and fights to form the words he desperately needs to say. She looks exactly as he recalls her- as he has recalled her, every night since that one- but she looks old, too; tired and miserable and wary of the whole world as though she is a hunted animal who isn’t sure if he is the hunter. Her eyes are fear-bright and cornered, a rabbit making the decision whether to flee or not. She looks as though every breath, every word, is an effort, and that scares him more than it should. She looks proud, strong enough to survive anything- and she looks as though one wrong word from him could send her crashing like glass to the floor.

In the end, he has none, and, shaking, he reaches his hand into his doublet and pulls out the one tangible thing he has kept for all these years, yellowed with age but still more precious to him than he could have imagined. He holds it out to her almost angrily, defying her to explain it, to tell him how it is he has this and nothing else.

She takes it from his grasp, fighting a shudder as their fingers brush and the air almost crackles, barely even seeing what it is until the familiar, soft feel of it slides between her fingertips.

With it, the last vestige of hope that she is mistaken dies, wilting along with her anger at him, and bone-deep weariness tugs at her chest instead. The glove. She stares, stupidly, at it, and then at him, twisting the thin material between her hands as though she can make it disappear.

He looks back at her with barely concealed emotion, his eyes wide and glossy, his whole body shaking. He looks so  _ old _ , but barely different to what she remembers- it’s in the stoop of his stance, the deadness in his expression, the shiver of his hands rather than anything physical in his appearance, and that scares her more than it should. He looks strong, looks like he could weather anything- and he looks as though one breath from her would topple him like leaves in the autumn breeze.

“You kept it,” she says- inadequate, meaningless, but she has to break the silence and he seems unable.

“Yes,” he manages to push out through ribs that feel splintered, pushing his whole self into the word and feeling wetness on his cheeks with a vague shame.

“You came.”

“You left.”

“Why?” they both ask, as one, and the shock of it makes them reel, blinking. That feeling- the inevitable pull and push, the bizarre harmony despite it all- slips through them both, and she hides a smile as he huffs out a nearly-amused breath. He shrugs-  _ you first _ \- and she pauses for a moment before replying, suddenly, achingly aware of how close he is. She uses that moment to drink him in, to reacquaint herself with his solid presence and his warmth, and uses it as her strength, borrowing from him as she always has.

“I,” and the urge to lie, to push back, to bite and claw and rend, is overwhelming, the desire to protect herself instinctive and frightening. But she is tired, and she is older now, and surely lies have done her no great service so far. She swallows, angrily. “I was scared you wouldn’t come.”

She sucks in a shaky breath and amends, “I was scared you  _ weren’t _ coming. Every time I heard a horse, I thought it was you. Every time it wasn’t, I was more scared. I couldn’t be that scared, Athos. Not anymore, without you- I can’t-“ she shakes her head, frowning up at him and begging him to understand. “Why,” she asks, and she isn’t sure she wants to know. “Did you come? And-“  _ where were you, _ she doesn’t say, but he hears it anyway and feels the guilt eating at him.

“I,” and the urge to say nothing is overwhelming, to sidestep and sigh and look away as he always has, to resolve nothing. But he is tired, and he is old, and there is nothing that can be worth this much misery when the means to fix it might be right here in his grasp for once. He cannot continue to be this stubborn, not when her perfume is heady and familiar, curling through him and settling back into his soul, drawing sparks from its cold embers, and her warmth is seeping into him and easing his bones as though colour has returned to the world. He groans, frustrated. “I came,” he says, and he speaks haltingly and without grace. “Because I can’t- without you- there’s nothing. No me. Just this.” He gestures to himself impatiently and wills her to understand.

“And – Treville needed me to stay,” he adds. “I shouldn’t have. I should have left them all, should have gone- damn duty, damn the Musketeers-“ and he trails off, not wanting to say more because though the sentiment is true, he could no more damn his brothers than he could stand before her without shaking.

She shakes her head and the air between them shifts almost imperceptibly, drawing them closer together, breathing as though from one pair of battered, painful lungs. He reaches for her arm, and she lifts her fingertips to his jaw, and the contact flares into a perfect, unbroken circle, thrumming between them.

“Anne-“ he says, and damn him if that isn’t always the first name for her that his mind gropes for, despite everything. “Milady,” he corrects hesitantly, unsure which is right any more.

“It doesn’t matter,” she answers his unspoken question, and they pause as though wondering if this is enough, if it can be enough for the moment.

“Which way are you headed?” he asks instead, and she smiles uncertainly, slipping her arm through his and thrilling at how familiar it is.

“Whichever way you are,” she says with a firmness that surprises her. His grunt is irritated and for one moment she worries that it is too much, this tiny contact. She prepares to draw back, draw into herself and shut away the bud that is threatening to bloom inside her after a long winter.

“Work,” he says instead, and then he hesitates, glancing at her askance while she waits in silence.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll do it tomorrow,” he shrugs as though dropping his duties was something he did every day. He turns abruptly, and offers her the other arm. “Let’s go. I’d rather go home, anyway.”

_ Home _ , she thinks, wonderingly, and the thought isn’t a terrible one to her anymore.

-x-


End file.
